Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas

Let me tell you a little about my childhood. I grew up in a non-cosmopolitan building (where I still live), with neighbors who were either cuckoo or musical geniuses. Dogs were called Waffles and Rufus. Grandmas wore dresses and earlobe-length hair and said things like “Hi dearie!” and “Good day-good luck” to you as you drove off to school. Ma sang me English songs from the ‘60s as lullabies and Mozart serenaded us at lunch on Sundays at my Daddy’s insistence. His inner coterie included Beethoven, Brahms and Liszt, and Strauss was my favorite uncle from toddlerhood.

I knew what scones were at 6 but found out what dalia is at 28. Hindi movies were banned at home. I saw my first at 11 and it did nothing for me. At 31, they still don’t. Since my early years were spent under the omnipotence of good old Doordarshan, apart from some “acceptable” telly serials, my idiot box entertainment flew in from London, courtesy Dad’s best friend. So ask me about Kermit and Miss Piggy, Benny Hill, the Two Ronnies and the Royal Variety Entertainment Performance and I’ll chirp away excitedly. Tell me about S.D. Burman and I’ll nod. But mostly only because you’ll judge me for not having a clue.

Until 10, the world was Enid Blyton. Every book re-read in double digits. Queen Elizabeth was “aapri Rani” to my grandparents’ generation. We still have a “Rani ni cupboard” that’s nine feet tall and dates back to the early ‘20s with ye olde grand dame’s face engraved on it. And a dumb waiter that’s about as old. Adi Kaka, the granduncle who lived with us, demolished all finger foods with a knife and fork and my brother carries on that legacy. Nana rang for her tea at 3 p.m. sharp and the tea cozies she used were hand embroidered by Aloo Mami with the classic “Mudum” with a parasol in an English garden. My clothes and shoes were frequently sent over from Kent and I remember the musical Mickey Mouse tee and the red plaid dress that could only be worn at the peak of Bombay winters and the ballerina flats with detachable bows.

I went to a school named after an English Queen and am still the member of a club named after a Princess. My literature teacher in senior school worshipped Shakespeare. So Marc Antony’s speech was to be blazed through in our sleep. And Venice and Verona were the backyard, never mind Virar and Vasai closer home. So. Bloody. Angrez.

I know.

If I haven’t alienated you already with what sounds like a bizarre life to lead in 1980s India, then hear out why I’m telling you this.

I’m going.

To Blighty.

Finally.

After 31 years of hearing paeans to London and having it brought to me, I will finally be setting foot on the land that has so shaped my community, my family and, of course, my country. As Indian as I feel—and I very strongly do—my upbringing has had me at the receiving end of remarks such as “Angrez chale gaye, tumhe chhod gaye.”

So I’m off. To see where so much of it filtered down from, the monuments and towers hitherto seen in snow globes and family pictures, to hear Sir Colin Davis conduct the London Symphony Orchestra in its home city, to be fussed over by my surrogate parents, to watch The Lion King at the West End, to dance to Celtic music in Eire, where my Aunt comes from, to meet college pals and university pals, twitter friends and blogger friends, wear scarves and jackets and all kinds of pretty, step back, let loose and unwind, however I please. For One. Whole. Delicious. Month.

I’ll be the first to tell you that I’ve had a fairly privileged life, but this vacation, my friends, has never been more richly deserved. Or needed. To say I’m thrilled is an understatement. I only hope I don’t squish a stewardess to death in excitement as I embark at Heathrow. Three days and I’ll be gone. And hope to bring the rain back with me. Big hugs to all of you. And throw in some respect when you send them back, y’hear? You’re now in the presence of a mem.

…may I (insanely proudly) present to you….

ADELE!

Black Beauty doesn't have a thing on her.

No daughter of mine is ever going to match those waifish looks.

Look the other way now!

Now, now, no stampeding, boys and girls. Go git your own.

And no, that’s not two extra pounds I’ve put on since she arrived. It’s called being chuffed.

.

I wrangled this tag from MiM’s page after protesting that it shouldn’t be limited to women with husbands. ‘Tisn’t fair! I said, stamping a virtual foot, and so poor MiM was obliged to open it up to me too. Without further ado, therefore, let me get down to boasting:

• He cooks me breakfast while I labor to haul my bulk out of bed. Not any slap-dash goop, mind you. Sunny side up with bacon or sausages, sauteed mushrooms, a slice of tomato for colour, toast done just right, butter, cheese, mustard, marmalade, juice, the works. Arranged perfectly and presented with a smile. He’d serve it in bed too, if I didn’t think that was gross. And then I whine about being a blimp.

• When Zubin Mehta was in town this past March, concert tickets were being sold at an auditorium near my home. Except, we were both pretty sure they’d be sold out before the sun rose. I told him to forget going and slept well into my Saturday morning, and was woken up gently by his voice on the phone asking me if I’d care to join him in the queue. The man had driven more than an hour from his then suburban home to stand in line before 7 a.m. and patiently waited for the four hours it took to get to the ticket counter. I joined him only for the last two.

• Ruskin Bond is to me what Shahrukh Khan is to millions of swooning idiots women around the world. And I will never quite get over the fact that my Boy whisked me away on an elaborately planned surprise holiday to Mussoorie so I could meet the man of my literary dreams. There’s still a tiny rent in my heart from all the happiness it held on that unforgettable day.

• Once, for a reason I can only vaguely recall now (yes, we’re quite goldfishy that way), I jetted off to the other side of the country to put some mental and physical distance between what I was going through at the time. Our man promptly got on a flight and landed up where I was and proceeded to ensure I’d never be too far away again. (Not in a psychopath way, I assure you. Very romantic and quite, quite crazy, but I can’t talk about it here just yet.)

• You probably have this coming out of your ears, but for the sake of possible newbies on this blog, I’m a South Bombay girl through and through. My Bombay spans from Colaba to Worli and suburban shock rapidly escalates as we go past Bandra. That said, I travelled to his remote (albeit beautiful) suburb every weekend for 16 months to spend time with him but Meru cabs are now on the brink of bankruptcy because my Boy has moved to South Bombay. For me. His 10-minute drive to work is now at least an hour and he won’t get to see his folks as frequently, but he’s made the move without any expectations and his ability to give makes me wonder what I did to deserve him. *end of mush*

• Oh wait, I lied. I’m going to sneak in one more: When it comes to maintaining a tidy and clean home, I’m a bit of a drill seargent. I admit it. So I’m especially proud of him because he realizes it’s important to me and has actually cleaned up his act, pun totally intended, and *trumpet blast* wears slippers in his apartment because I’ve finally convinced him it’s the clean thing to do!!! Do you know how happy that makes me??? I’m so beside myself with joy, I almost forget to scrub the decorative grill on the post box with its own dedicated toothbrush.

Sheesh. I’m done. Someone scoop up the sap and pour me into a jug, please.